There was a time I envied jet-setter friends who were always in and out of the cities they had adopted as home. Until I became one too. Don’t get me wrong, I love the thrill of being a frequent flyer, of acquainting myself with unfamiliar cultures and cuisines and soaking in whatsoever my limited time frame allows me to experience. But what I miss most is not simply the privilege of sleeping in my own bed, resting my head against my own dream-lined pillow but waking up to my morning ritualistic pot of roasted Darjeeling tea and basking in the warm light that filters through my kitchen window.

As I swipe-type this column on my Redmi phone at the back of a black-and-yellow taxi that’s dropping me home to Kurla, I am fantasising the feast that awaits me. I’m too starved to ask my father and mother what’s on the menu. It’s past 3 pm and they’re hungry too. I’m awaiting the comfort of the kitchen, the repository of all my childhood memories. It was there that I was first unconsciously tutored in the art of culinary intuition at the behest of my father who excels in its intricacies. My mother, a fabulous cook herself, worked 12-hour shifts every day of the week for the entire expanse of my childhood and adolescence. My father would return from office around 6 pm. He, my sister and I would watch The Wonder Years over tea, and then he would enlist our assistance in preparing dinner.